Espionage
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: Part of one of the finest organizations in the world. Fighting for information that could make or break the world they know. Up against the greatest villains, all wanting the destruction of the very same world. Killian Jones and Emma Swan are forced to team up in the extreme circumstances, to take on the villains of the world of Espionage. Features all characters in varying detail.
1. Chapter 1

**Here it is! The big new story... Scary and exciting! I hope you enjoy. (Sorry about mistake in first edit!)**

 **The chapters: some will be shorter than others, based on their content and my craziness of life at this moment.**

 **I would like to say, first of all, I have never been to America or possibly quite a few places in this story. Please don't judge me too harshly on the descriptions I may write considering America and the rest of the world; if anything, some advice would be much appreciated.**

 **This won't be a story completely about the relationship of Killian and Emma, though that will definitely be a huge part of it. This is going to include all of the characters that I could think about when planning this. I hope you like it.**

* * *

A storm of eolian force is making it's way towards New York City, lashings of rain already punishing the window panes, with more yet to come. Clouds permeating the previously blue sky with darkness and imperfections. Panicked newspapers and magazines flap in the wind on their stands, equally scattered vendors desperately trying to hold onto their precious loads. Wooden shutters shuddering in the cold. Hurried New-Yorkers walk at a faster pace than usual, aiming for sanctuary of a Starbucks or their homes, burying chapped faces into jackets and scarves. Hoods, hats and umbrellas act as protection.

A few anomalous walkers - those without protection - rush around me in the streets, dripping hair plastered to their foreheads and necks, water clinging to their bodies.

With such a repertoire of characters in the Big City, I fit right in. Dressed in generic black jeans, soaked navy converse and a leather jacket thrown over my grey hoodie and deep blue shirt. Comfortable and means I can blend in very easily, especially now with the graying skies. The rain only slightly impairs my vision, water droplets clinging to my eyelashes and the sections of hair that occasionally brush into my eyesight. The cold and the wet and the miserable day is not even a tiny bit important. I don't mind the greatest of tempests because the cool metal memory stick in my left jacket-pocket is the reward I get. Despite being caught in the 'storm of the century' - which, by the way, is an astronomical exaggeration.

Pride is an important part of the job. In this case, it's the pride of bringing the information safely back to base and getting something more interesting to do than watching the movement across the Technological Infrastructure.

Plus, I do actually like rain. The scent of petrichor gliding with the breeze and the mist which rises, creating the dramatic effect on the surroundings. Not that my life isn't dramatic enough. But a misty veil on the world does make pretty much anything interesting. And it's far better to laugh at yourself and your life than to laugh at those of others.

Another thing I like about the rain is the clarity it provides. The freshness of the air and the cold both help me to think. The water acts as a constant refresher and keeps me awake, opposite to the drawling heat which occupies the city in mid-July. It reminds me of passed days which would be spent in the damp, roaming the hills of the moors and chasing the day, far from the path. It also helps me to notice things, which is imperative for my job. Especially in this unique situation.

There's a guy following behind me. He stops every so often, draws from his cigarette, adjusts his trousers, and then continues. Lucky I know the kind of guy Albert Spencer employs, otherwise I would not have known this man behind me from the next. It's also what leads me to spotting the man trailing, a street away from me. I glance his dark brown jacket every time I pass another block. Waiting for something to happen. Heavy-duty boots, large, rounded shoulders and hip-length leather jackets which make Old-Man Albert look like a stereotypical gang-leader.

Not that I've met many gangs recently. Also, Spence is part of new club in town. The _Mafia Royale._ Because they think of themselves as royals and legendary. God, do my superiors hate that. Unfortunately, it means that these guys are after what's in my pocket. Which means that I'm probably going to have to get a little creative, considering that there are probably more on their way. They're not afraid of being armed and letting loose to obtain some serious information.

 _This is why I don't wear any bloody earphones. Bloody distraction._

Think, Jones, think. I can't go anywhere public because I might as well be leading them to massacring a bunch of people. Spence is ruthless and he would rather not shoot down some civilians - it draws attention to him publicly. Well, his people, at least.

I grip the memory stick tightly in my hand to attempt at prompting myself into thinking something useful. The rain isn't holding back, so maybe I can simply blend into the crowds and hope they lose sight of my bland outfit for the day. Only problem with that is that the numbers of people has greatly decreased since the storm began it's attack on the rest of us innocents below.

 _Oh crap._

My mind and body notices this feeling before my eyes even see what's before me, merely 200 yards from me. The sinking feeling which tells me that something is wrong and I am probably going to go down a terrible path which will lead me to losing this information. This feelings stems from the car parked the 200 yards from where my feet have slowed. The Rolls Royce Phantom, customary to Albert Spencer. Blacked-out windows, matte black paint, a sliver of silver visible from the distance which I know to be the wheels and the rims of the windows.

Son of a bitch. Now I have to think faster than I really wanted to. I'm cold and I'm wet but at least I'm thinking.

One of the men appears ahead of me, rounding back, dressed in his dark brown jacket, the collar pulled up to fend the rain away from his neck where his hair has been gelled down to. In one slick sweep. I don't bother to look behind me to check on the second man. I know he must have ditched the cigarette and gaining on me. And looking back would look suspicious. These men shouldn't know me. I don't know them and I like to think I keep a low profile. But I knew they were Spence's men, so maybe they know a little about me and about the people of my profession.

A fight is inevitable. No one is going to help me and I really don't want to compromise anyone by calling for back-up. This is on me. I can't turn away from the fight but I cannot get myself killed. That would be very stupid indeed. I'm not going anywhere with Spence. I will not be getting in that car. I will not be beaten to the ground until I can take no more, handing over the information and myself. That is out of the question.

I need to take this fight away from the streets, at least.

To my right, two shops away, is an old bakery, aptly named 'Cakes and Coffee' from the last owner. It hasn't changed hands as such, the pale green splatter of paint on the front of the shop now covered in the grime that comes with being an inhabitant of New York City, especially here. The slightly worn bricks and the cracked window from some attempted heist. (A heist which clearly could not have gone very well, with the lack of money, provender, anything, in the shop.) I remember the woman who used to own it before it was shut down, following her death and a murder inquiry. A short, grey-haired woman of mid-forties, usually dressed in light brown brogues and a calf-length dress. The classic dinner lady kind of look. She was polite to all of her customers, except the ones who were generally exonerated by the piranhas of society.

She threatened any non-white, non-American, homosexual who entered her shop. It was quite unfortunate for my friend who happened to be very camp, but not in any way inclined to bat for his own team. His wife is a busty woman called Shannon.

One morning, Neil Rutherford of the NYPD came in for his morning bear-claw and found the shop empty of the woman and instead homing rats and some half eaten cupcakes. There was a brief murder inquiry but she was discovered at her sons home in New Orleans, cancelling her rent on the building. Hence, the 'For Rent' sign on the door. I know there is a back door which leads to the loading bays for many of the shops (most of which do not require loading bays, but use the space for parking) and also onto the roof.

I pause for effect at the door, pretending to read the sign, but instead reading my surroundings. There's a few stalls, a quiet cafe and a hairdressers. Not enough people. Not that it's a good idea to put on a show for the civilians, the ones who aren't supposed to know about us.

In my peripheral vision, the two men are walking at a slow pace, chatting amicably. They aren't looking at me, but I know exactly what they want. Spence isn't exactly my biggest fan. I think I would rather have him hunting me down than the Crocodile.

The bell barely rings upon my entry into the shop, cracked down one side and barely moving with the rust forming. The woman was strange, but she was good with detail. Not even a counter-top or poster remains, all taken back to New Orleans or stolen in the weeks it took for her to move back with her son. The whole shop is in desperate need of a new owner and a lick or two of paint - even if just to get rid of the grime and the sickly green color which makes the cafe comparable to a giant pistachio.

One remaining part of what it used to be are the saloon-like doors leading into the kitchen, painted a rose pink, hinges rusted but still there. Not my favorite color in the world, but I'm not actually intending to buy this place, obviously. Enough to hide me for a little while, on my near-to-useless pretense of inspecting the place.

I glance behind me for a moment, watching past the layer upon layer of rain, slapping against the large windows and run a hand through my hair, trying to get rid of some of the water. To no avail. I push against the doors into the kitchen, shuddering at the squeak the metal makes in protest to my request. With the other hand, I press a finger to my side where the gun rests in the holster. Hidden, but definitely still there. I sigh and turn into the kitchen, scanning the cupboards for a sign of anything out of the ordinary - the ordinary being 'abandoned'.

I don't bother to check the cupboards. The dust which rests here has not moved since the last break in, which can't have been less than two months ago. Dust is a strange thing. Smells weird and provides a bloody horrible time for asthmatics. Instead, I look around for anything. Any sign of an escape, should I desperately need one. Which I'm thinking that I will.

The bell rings. The cracked thing, rattling slightly. Heck if I'm wrong, but I think that means the bloody monsters are in.

As usual, I feel the sense of threat that seems to follow me wherever I go. I'm not scared, I am just aware of what could happen on this particular job. As it is with any kind of sensitive information, there is a large amount of threat and fear involved.

I don't dare to breath more than necessary, on the off chance that it's not them. Instead, I count the footsteps as they trudge through the door, and the hum of instruction from whoever is leading this particular attack. One, two, three sets of footsteps, in heavy boots, the clink of metal against the linoleum. And then the clicking off of the safety on the gun and the placing of bullets into the chamber. And all I can think is _bollocks bollocks bollocks._

It's not that I'm into self-preservation, but I really don't feel like killing me at this moment is going to help anyone other than Spence and his men and maybe a few other terrorists. Yes, that's the majority, but I need to not die. And at the moment, this feels a little more like 'kill and obtain' as opposed to 'obtain'. Great. _Bollocks bollocks bollocks._

Sure, I expected them to have firearms, but not to use them this early on in the mission. I don't know why I didn't expect as much, but clearly the rain has done me no favors with thinking clearly. Back in London I used to do well in the rain, clearly not anymore.

There's a window to my left, a little higher than the kitchen counter-top, but I would be able to make it out just about. I shove my hand into my pocket. It's still there. My heart rate slows a little in relief, but I stretch my fingers, anxious to be out of here. Why did I back myself into a bloody corner? This is ridiculous. Necessary, but ridiculous. And it looks like the rain has yet again disadvantaged me by soaking me. Hence, I have some squeaky converse, so this whole thing is going to be very difficult to be covert in any way at all.

I press the base of my palms against the plastic counter and push, stretching myself up above. I place a sodden foot onto the counter, then the other, and take a large breath, slowly. _Relax, Killian, relax._ My heart thumps hard in my chest and I want to warn it to be quieter, but I know it doesn't work like that. And I am ever so thankful. I haul myself up into a crouching position, my right shoulder facing the window. I close my eyes for a moment, envisioning it, finding a place in my mind where it won't hurt quite so much.

 _Shoulder first, protect the head, roll._

I test the glass and it wobbles under the slight amount of pressure. Single pane and loose. Somewhat to my advantage, I would say. Hurrah for that, I suppose. Although, the mission is not entirely looking-up-for-Jones. The world is a strange and cruel place.

 _Shoulder first, feet last._

I close my eyes again and pull my hood up to protect whatever I can. I pull my sleeves to cover my hand and back up a couple of inches before propelling myself towards the window, shoulder first, springing up from my crouch on the glass shatters around me and I almost forget to roll, at the last moment, turning my head beneath me as my arm hits the ground. I crouch down as the glass rains down around me, slicing tiny fragments of my jeans, but fortunately no major parts of my skin.

Unfortunately, my little stunt will definitely signify to those three men that I am definitely not hiding in the WC. Therefore, now is a good time to start running, Jones. And, as usual, my own thoughts push me to stretching up and not looking back, sprinting alongside the fence to another door, which I race through. I reach inside my pocket for a moment and brush my finger against the memory stick and smirk, I might get away, amazingly. I zip up the pocket and use my arms to push myself even further with each new step.

Then, bugger me, the gunshots start.

One, then two, then three. One fired by each gun, from each man. Obviously untalented shots given that one lands above me and the two others are directed at the floor, meters behind me now. In the metaphorical dust. Anyone could mistake them for thunder, which is definitely advantageous in this stage. My eyes whip around, searching for anything to help me. A ladder, no use. It would take too much time. Instead, I swing the ladder down as an act of disrupting their path. It clangs, but I don't look back. I turn around an opened door and grab a hold of a trembling pipe and haul myself up onto the roof. It's stable so I start to run. The chances are, these men aren't hugely athletic, they're just big and strong and could kill me with one hand.

But then of course I hear the thumping footsteps and another gunshot, and a brush of wind as the bullet takes of a piece of my hoodie. And damn them because I like this hoodie. I need to think of somewhere I can go without hurting them or me. I can't run forever. There's the base, safe houses, my apartment, any abandoned building.

 _Fuck fuck fuck._ I'm going to have to take them out anyway. I can't go anywhere with this drive. I can't take it back to base and I can't take it to a safe house. Most of them have civilians in them at the moment and I really cannot break into that. The civilians would die, I would die, and the world would soon after go to crap.

And the base is a definite no-no. If I went there, followed by three gunmen - and crappy ones at that - the whole organization would be compromised and I would be fired, not only dead. I'm pretty sure Regina would tear me three new ones. That's what she says, anyway.

I slide down the side of the roof to the pavement again, in a full out sprint, to buy me some time. It's just about enough. The three of them are over a hundred yards away and I drop down to my knees, one hand in a surrender and the other pressing the pads of my fingers to the anklet beneath my jeans. Maybe back-up isn't needed, but an extra pair of hands is always handy in a hands-on fight. I have my gun, but I don't want to use it. That's how people really get hurt.

A cold metal circle presses into the back of my neck and I hear the deafening click of a bullet in place. I feel the vibration as the gun is clocked off safety mode. I always think it's odd that gangsters have their guns on safety mode.

"Stand up and get your hands away from that thing," says the male standing behind me, knee pressed firmly against my back, preventing me from much movement. I move my other hand away from the anklet, swallowing deeply. _Fuck fuck fuck._

 _No need for Regina to tear me a new one, this guy is going to blow one right through my jugular._

The man behind me practically growls as I stand, eyes closed in what should look like defeat. Actually, I'm trying to desperately think of a way out of this. I tried the calling for back-up thing and I have no idea whether it's going to work. It's been tested in the lab, but not any long-range. I guess this is where we see how well the new technology works, and I can finally feedback to August and Jepedo, Head of Technology Development and Control.

"Hand it over," says the voice from behind me, pressing the gun harder against my neck. I try not to blanch at the feel of it, knowing too-well how that thing can feel if shot through your body. I swallow deeply, willing my brain to think of something that will not get me shot or the drive will remain in my possession.

A light, barely-there vibration tickles the hairs of my ankle, signifying a response from a unit member. I chant in my head, will myself not to show a reaction or hint or relief or recognition. Instead, I focus myself on a single point, to ground myself: The icy barrel of the gun and the fact that I could die - not positive, but realistic. The rain slamming against the dim world around me.

"Spence wants you alive," muses the man with the gun, almost laughing, despite the situation. The fact that Albert Spencer wants me alive is not a comforting one, so I try to be nonchalant about it and slightly roll my shoulders backwards, breathing in the petrichor. It reminds me a little of home. Spence's lair is one of the last places I would like to be, other than perhaps New York City on Black Friday. "I really don't want to kill you unless I have to." Which means he might if one wrong move is made.

There is a huge weight slammed in the backs of my calves, the heavy boot kicking into me. With a whoosh of breath, I sink to my knees, gravelly ground hard against my soaked jeans and the rain still lamenting. The gun in my waistband digs in uncomfortably.

"Not that I understand why," the man mutters, jabbing the barrel into my neck again and grabbing a fistful of my saturated hair so he can pull at it and shove my face forward onto the gravel. His words slightly reiterate what I have suspected about Spence's men, since none of them know of his motives - it's because they are expendable.

He crashes a boot into my back so I am prostrate on the ground, at his complete mercy. I take a chance, raise my hands in surrender and roll over, noting the features of the man before me. Broken, large nose. Pale but blotchy skin. Half an eyebrow missing on the left. Huge shoulder, made wider by the shoulder patches of his leather jacket. Thin lips. A small scar on his chin/ Harsh green-grey eyes that look too small his his large, square-shaped head. Bald. Done by choice. Mid-forties. Looking at me as though he hates that I am younger than him in this 'man's game'.

The thing closest to me is the firearm he holds to possessively. A silencer tipping the end of the Colt M1911A1. Powerful. Personally, I prefer a Glock 19. Easy concealment and gets the job done. I don't like to use it in anything other than an emergency.

Plus, we have a strict "no kill" policy which states that a situation must be "code red" before any fatal injury should be attempted. Code red as in, if he's not trying to kill me then I cannot engage in a fatal manner. Even if I shot him in the leg, I would guess that he'd still be a decent shot, especially from barely three feet away.

Thumping footsteps reach us and I know that I am, as some say, _shit outta luck._

"Give us the drive," the bald one demands in his low voice, bristly, keeping his steely gaze and gun trained on me.

"Gentlemen," I begin, then one of them jabs a foot into my stomach and a few chokes escape me. I take in his appearance. Short, dark brown hair, bushy eyebrows and deep brown eyes, a slight tan to his skin. Scars from chickenpox dotting his forehead. "I am terribly sorry, but I simply do not have it." I speak as calmly and as politely as I can, even adding that sheepish British smile to my concerned expression. "Again, I profusely apologize." I lather on the charm and the concern. "I would love to help, but I am afraid that I cannot."

Another boot connects with my shoulder, stomach and thigh. Each of them bringing the burning ache and I urge my body to forget the pain and focus and ground myself once again. Bloody hell, it's difficult. I almost gasp with the new pains metastasizing.

Vibrations on my ankle make me focus.

One, two, three. Three short vibrations. That means three minutes before the back-up comes in. Three minutes I have to remain alive until I don't have to think much about what to do next and just focus on getting out. The reward of back-up.

One, two-three, four-five. The first is the ranking of my back-up partner, which means it is my first-choice partner. David Nolan. Thank God for David Nolan. The second and third short vibrations means there will be a squad, but no armed unit. The final two signify a get-away car. Probably some awfully corporate car, but I always hope for a Maserati.

"We know you got it, Jones," one of the blokes claim - the brunette. The incorrect grammar annoys me. I grin at him, knowing I shouldn't be cocky, but unable to help myself.

"Oh contrare, my friend, I do not." I shrug innocently. It ears my another boot to the side. It has been mentioned to me that perhaps it is not the best to behave this way when there is back-up on it's way, but it is oh so difficult to not think happy thoughts. Better for them to kick me for my arrogance than for having the information, and then promptly stealing it. "I really cannot express my apologies as much as I mean them." A crunching heal to my stomach. Then the unmistakable taste of grime as the bald man's shoe is pressed to my cheek, the liquid-muck running between my lips, the stench foul. My face rolls across the gravel as his foot pushes me along this path.

"Tell us where it is or I break your pretty face and every bone in your body."

 _Tad hostile._

With this statement comes a harsh kick and a stamp to the shoulder, almost dislocating it due to the position of my head and shoulders. Searing pain races through me, cursing every cell with it's disease. My vision runs white for a second and I clamp my eyes shut to try and control any nonsensical noise; to get a handle on myself.

The boot presses my cheek into the ground further, the tiny stones grazing into my face. Engraving their patterns upon it.

"Spit it out."

I don't say a word, fearing that both my silence and any words I say will end in my demise. I scour for David's figure against the dark skies, not wanting a dislocated shoulder, and certainly not wanting to lose the drive after I have come this far. Regina would kill me herself. Oh and she would do it in the most painful way possible. Probably burning off my skin, layer by layer. I loathe to think about that even for one moment.

"There is nothing for me to 'spit out', gentlemen," I say past the boot pressing heavily against me. Partly because of the dark figure I have seen, his head peeking out from the building a couple of meters away. I almost sigh with relief, but stop myself once again.

They don't even see it coming.

The first one is down within seconds of David approaching the group, and he kicks away the boot on my face. Mud scraps across me but I disregard it quickly, crouching and shaking out my body before punching the man to my left. The bald one holding the colt. He barely stumbles. Another hit goes to his face and he reels a little, but comes back with a look of distaste on his face.

A blast of pain greets my stomach. And not in a friendly way. I double over, but try to remain standing.

The man across from me smiles, and that kind of annoys me. I aim my palm to his diaphragm, which will make his breathing more difficult. I aim my palm at his face, knocking his jaw backwards as he stumbles, amazingly. Another whoosh of air escapes me as my feet disappear from underneath me, sending my body crashing to the ground. The man is bleeding, my hand having caught his nose in the cross-fire. I smile nervously at him, an attempt at feigning innocence. Not much point now though. I get up as quickly as I can, the gravel scraping skin where exposed.

The wind howls mercilessly and I spot the flashes of bright white light against the sky. Lightening. We can't be out in this weather. I glance over at David after sending another punch to the man's stomach. His face is marred by the slashes of rain and he is shouting something, something which I barely hear above the shouts of other men and the crashing and rumbling of thunder. The storm is very close now. On our heels, almost.

"Come on, we gotta go!" David yells above the uproar. I barely hear as a fist rams into my face, and then another to my stomach.

"Just give us the damn drive and this will all be over," croons the man before me, smiling as he holds his fists to his chest. Ready for me. Waiting for the next one. But not ready for reaching a gun. Too slow. Seconds too slow, he would be. I can't risk it. I can't shoot him. I can't. "Whatcha gonna do pretty boy?" I laugh mirthlessly and spit out onto the ground. I glance back at David, seeing one of the men is down, but the other stands, his palms protecting his face. David isn't going for the face. I know his moves. He will not go for the face. Only try to prevent attack.

 _Bloody charming._

"I don't have it." I convey the words in a monotonous tone. We have to move. We can't stay out here.

I see it happening immediately. Even in the dim light, sunlight masked by clouds, the rain splitting apart reality. I see him reaching for the gun, but he is a second too slow, as predicted. In the background I hear David's shout and the crack as he smacks a palm to the man's head.

The bald man doesn't reach for his gun in the end. Instead, he clutches his stomach, the inky liquid seeping from the wound and onto his staining hands. He shouts and screams profanities at me, telling me that he'll come after me, but I hear only a few scarce words. The world around me numbs and the gun feels like a stranger in my hands, still cocked in position, my feet planted.

David pulls at my arm, yelling at me. I see the back-up squad turning the corner, their vests glinting in the lightning seconds after the thunder which erupted from my firearm. The noise as loud as the thunder and the flash as bright as lightning. David is shouting still and I turn to him, unsure of what to do. Every bone in my body yearns to help the man, even though he is an enemy. I know why it does that.

The memories of other blood spilling onto pavements. Of another sinking to their knees, clutching at the life falling from their fingertips.

Pain rips through me. At first I think it's the aching of memories past, but then I feel the running of warmth from my shoulder, and touch a pad of a finger to the spot. Pain courses through me again and I hear David again, screaming at me to move.

Five men of the back-up squad surround them. The bald one, the one I shot, holds the Colt in one hand and presses the wound with the other to stop the bleeding. I turn to run and David is seven feet ahead of me already. I race towards the end of the alley, knowing I'll be fine. The bleeding will stop one way or another. Regina might just kick me out. I would deserve it. She could send me to Dr Whale to kill me; let me die in surgery.

As expected, there is a practical van parked at the end of the little gravel alley. I raise an eyebrow in mirth, unable to do much more, feeling numb.

The door slams shut. The van speeds off. At some point, my vision goes strange. Dark blots appear in my sight. I don't know where we are, but I know where we're going. I know David is beside me, but his voice slips in and out of hearing range. The pain is constant, but then it's not. I know I'm not making sense.

"We'll get you to Whale," David murmurs to me, a mobile pressed to his ear and a look of worry etched onto his features. He slips away for a second and I shake my head to get rid of the dull ache. "Then Regina wants to speak with you."

* * *

Her office is clinically clean, as it always has been. White walls, an enormous window looking out across the landscape, and the single mirror hanging on the left. Hardly a photo in sight. Two, mirrored frames, one holding a photo of her son. The other holding a photo of her father. His grey haired and smiling face is not directed at me today, but at Regina's empty desk.

Every detail of the room is precise.

The door clicks as Regina enters. I stand automatically.

Am I ready for this?

No. No, I am not ready for a complete bollocking.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. Review please? Tell me what sort of chapter length and how I can improve, and whether I should just stop immediately?**

 **I won't be able to post for a while due to the exams which are chasing me down and preparing to... Eat me alive. I have already partly prepared the next chapter, so hopefully it won't be too long until it comes out!**

 **Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

Regina sits behind her desk and tucks the chair in, gesturing for me to sit in the white leather one opposite her. She glances down at the photo of her son before looking back up at me, straight backed and waiting for her to talk to me. As usual, her skin is alabaster smooth and not a single hair is out of place, contrasting with the storm brewing in her dark brown eyes.

She waits a few moments before speaking, her mouth slightly twisting to the side in a sneer of disappointment. I don't like the woman much but I do have to respect her, and I do. She does an incredible job of keeping this firm out of detection.

"I assume you got the drive?" She asks without emotion, dark red lips curving slightly. Despite the lightness of the room around her, she creates her own waves of anger, shadowing the planes of white covering the walls. The bold blue of her dress and the red of her lips are accentuated in the plainness of her surroundings. I reach into my jacket pocket and wrap the lanyard around me hand before dropping it onto the desk before her, the memory stick clattering. One of the nurses handed it to me in a plastic wallet after I left the ward.

I don't say a word and Regina watches me, carefully slotting the drive into the top drawer of her desk, ready to be analysed and coded later on. We sit in silence. Every moment feels like she is analyzing every breath I take and each second I wait. I won't be the one to start this awful conversation. This may not be the best job I could be in, but it has treated me well over the years and I don't want to lose my job.

"I am incredible disappointed in your actions on this job, and I know that you are as well." Gentle beginning. A good start but bound to get worse. Unfortunately, I have been on this end of one of Regina's talks before - a couple of years ago when a mistake I made also cost someone greatly. Even then, her words are chosen precisely. Although, these are probably rehearsed several times over before the meetings. "If you had not got the drive then I would have fired you."

Very blunt. My stomach drops successfully. I nod in understanding.

Regina notices the biting of my cheek and smiles slightly, her left dimple appearing through the smooth skin.

"You will be on report work for the next three weeks and remain out of field. You will be assigned desk work and nothing more, even if your past cases require your personal attendance." She pauses to watch me. I bite both cheeks to prevent a grimace from gracing my face. "You will be accompanied out of the office on your way home for the first week so you don't do anything else to follow this fatal mistake."

I had only assumed that the man had died, but the news is shock to me, causing my stomach to sink further down my body and my cheeks to flush with heat and horror.

Regina clasps her hands upon her desk and leans forward gingerly, waiting for me to say something, say anything in regard to my new instructions. Three weeks is a long time, but I can do it. I have done desk work before and I can do it again. I doubt it's a possibility that I could stay at home and file my reports from there, given her steely gaze and want for me to be 'guarded'. Or babysat.

I feel a pinch of anger at that.

"Do you really have no comments or queries?" she asks, testing me and her left cheek twitching again.

"I merely want to apologize for my actions and the trouble I have caused you and the company," I say, equally rehearsed; confident but not arrogant. Arrogance is what gets me both fired at and fired.

"For evaluative purposes, will you state that you didn't not use a communication system earpiece - and in order to prove yourself?" She asks coldly, as if knowing it will set the pinch of anger to more of a sustained bubble. Of course she knows about that, but it hasn't made a huge impact on my work before. Sometimes I have requested to go offline and that hasn't bothered her before. But now she is calculated.

I grit my teeth for a moment, knowing she is trying to push any buttons she can find. She leans back in her chair before offhandedly stating, "I just think it would be good for other agents to be aware of what happens when you don't use your base partner and to learn from your dire mistakes." She pauses, her lips quirking and nails tapping gently against the desk. "So they don't need to call for emergency back-up in a simple situation."

"Regina, you know damn well how difficult the mission was, and you chose me to do it. Not some fresh-minded bouncy little imp, but me. Killian Jones." I grind out the words, remaining sound posture and a calmness to the rest of my body. Logic is key. Logic is key. I hope to remember that.

"That is Miss Mills to you," She snaps coldly, glaring at me and sitting straight again. Power pose complete. "Anyway, notwithstanding of your past efforts, you almost failed this time. Your mistakes are worth recording so maybe you and others can learn in the future." I itch to run my hand through my hair in frustration. Instead, I take a slow breath and roll my left shoulder slightly. It still aches, even though Dr Whale did an incredible job of fixing me up.

"Miss Mills," I say, a little forced. "I accept my mistakes completely and I am horrified at the consequences of this one mission, but I could have done far worse with Mr Smee blathering on in my ear." I speak quietly, attempting to me gentle. Honestly, it doesn't really work. Regina raises her eyebrows a little, causing a crease on her forehead. She licks her teeth and I watch the vein pulsate on her forehead for a moment or two. Waiting. Calculating.

"Jones," she begins. "The man is employed here for a reason. For God's sake use him." She pinches the bridge of her nose, only showing weakness and tiredness for a fraction of a section. "I understand you are very capable, but so are others in this firm and they are employed to ensure all missions run smoothly - such as Mr Smee. Even you need help sometimes." She looks up at me then, agitation in her eyes.

If anything, her comments make the situation worse. I should agree with her, but that feels far too alike defeat. And I will not accept that.

"Pardon my frustration Miss Mills, but I hardly think that bumbling rat of a man could have helped me divert from Spence's men," I point out harshly, glancing away from her at instead glimpse a plane skirting across the blue skies. The anger rolls off the both of us in waves, but I know I will have to be the one to back down. "They were surrounding. They knew me and they knew I had the drive. No amount of base instructions would have guided me away from Spence."

"And yet one of them still died. But we have the drive, but the death is completely on you."

"For Chrissakes," I mutter, then say louder, "He would have killed me had I not harmed him first."

Regina sighs heavily and purses her lips, then moves her hands so they are once again clasped on her desk. All business. Her eyes tell a different story. They speak of resignation and of just wanting someone not to disagree with her.

"I was not supposed to disclose such information, but since we are having this discussion then I might as well," she says slowly, carefully. "What you have done is lit the flame to a gas chamber of hell. Apparently." She shrugs. "But we both know that these men will stop at nothing to get the drive, especially now they know that we have it. You know what Albert Spencer is like. Everyone is expendable once they have been used aptly." I nod, understanding her chagrin. I've been informed a little about this drive.

The gangs and terrors could come in their masses to vie for the same thing. The information which is on that drive. We have only been informed of some of what it contains, but the rest will be decoded in the next week or so.

So I've been told.

"I'll have the report with you as soon as possible," I announce, knowing the conversation is over now Regina has made her sacrifice of information. I see a hint of a smile on her lips and know that I must have made the correct assumption.

"You may go," she says briskly, and then clearly relaxing as I spare one final glance. I almost feel sorry for her. Every conversation is either an interrogation or a manipulation of sorts. Then again, she does have the Big Job.

There is a click as the door automatically locks behind me and I am thrown back into the world of sharks in which I work. Tink glares at me form her desk, fingers typing hastily on her keyboard. I smile at her and she raises a single eyebrow, letting it disappear into the shock of curled blonde hair which tumbles across her vision. I wink and she glares. A far better reaction. Alas, I don't quite feel the usual sparks today.

From inside my jacket pocket, my phone buzzes unceremoniously. I leave the room immediately, walking quickly to the hallway where I might catch an elevator to the floors below, where my segment lies. Desk work. I almost can't believe it. Not even allowed to be in attendance to any important open case meetings. I check the caller ID and answer immediately.

"Now's not a great time, Liam," My brother merely chuckles from the other end of the line as I sigh, jogging towards the elevator. It closes a moment too soon, the red-headed female inside smiling apologetically. I scratch my ear and turn to the stairwell.

"Too busy to talk to your big brother?" Liam asks with a smirk in his voice. I lean against the wall, watching the skies from the wide windows, as the wisps of cloud dance across the sea of blue. So different from New York City just last week. "Have I distracted you from any pressing matters. Because, as I recall, if you were doing anything important, you would not have answered. As you previously mentioned," he mutters slightly under his breath. "I know my place, brother," Liam says with the smile back in his voice. I almost smile at him.

The door opens on the stairwell and Dr Hopper exits, carrying his umbrella and smiling shyly as if he had been looking for me. Great. He shuffles towards me and then notices the phone at my ear. I run a hand through my hair and inwardly sigh in frustration. Knowing it's rude but doing it anyway, I hold up a finger to the Doc and try to look as apologetic as I can.

"Hold on a sec, Liam," I interrupt and turn the phone into my chest. "Dr Hopper?"

He looks almost surprised that I'm addressing him and shuffles a little awkwardly before saying, "Killian, Miss Mills just emailed me to explain what happened last week and that perhaps you might need to talk to me about it. Dr Whale also sent me the notes of your case." I nod in understanding. The shooting. The man is only doing his job, but I must say that I don't feel like I want to talk about it. After spending a week only thinking about the pain and David visiting me, I haven't delved far into my thoughts on killing a man. It's uncommon in this firm so fair enough that the in-company psychiatrist would be straight on the case. The Red Flag metaphorically flying.

"It doesn't have to be today?" I ask gingerly. Dr Hopper shrugs.

"As soon as you want. In the next couple of days would be best. Any longer and it could effect you long-term." I nod again and utter my thanks. "How about two o'clock on Thursday? We can do a short session," he suggests.

"Okay," I say. Dr Hopper turns and jogs down the stairs to the next exit. I don't move until the door shuts behind him, and I let out a heavy sigh in his wake. Liam's voice shouts out from the device in my palm, nonsensical. I inwardly swear and place the phone to my ear again. "Sorry about that brother. The Doc just wanted a quick word. Make sure I'm doing the best I can, I suppose."

Silence from the other end of the line. Not a good thing. But could be far worse. Regardless, my stomach sinks.

"Are you going to tell me the truth about what's happening there, Killian?" He asks warningly, worry seeping into his tone. I don't speak for a moment; afraid of what I will reveal. But this is my brother.

"I made a judgement and it was fatal," I say as if reading the unwritten report. Silence. I slide down the wall to sit on the corner of the bottom step, watching the skies from the window beside me. The air conditioning is cool but in this area I am burning with guilt. "Liam, I messed up."

"What did you do?" The gentleness of an older brother rushes into his tone, already more of a father figure than my actual father.

"I was in a compromising position. One of Spence's guys went to shoot me, so I shot first," I breathe, my words hardly above a whisper. Of course I know he hears me, but he stays silent on the other end. Waiting for me to finish the confession. He knows there is more, despite being completely unknowing of the situation. "As he was dying, he shot me."

"You let yourself get shot?"

The change in emotion is instantaneous. I knew it would happen. As soon as I mentioned my injury, I knew my brother would overstep 'protective' and race towards 'angry'. So, of course, this made me angry too.

"Bloody hell, Liam, it wasn't a choice!" I shout down the phone, my fury rising as I speak and stand to pace the white stone flooring. There's no movement behind the doors and that makes me relieved. It means I won't be spotted. It's about an hour before lunch so no one will be moving yet, slugging away for the last moments of the first half of the day.

"It was still your fault." A petulent statement from my brother, but definitely a fair one. Of course I don't say a thing though. I can't let him know that he made a valid point. I'll just quietly seethe. A childish trait of mine. I must also be a relative thing. I don't particularly like being told off by my older brother. "Blimey, Killian, you don't do that kind of thing. You need to be more careful." And that's where the bloody instructions come in. Caring Liam, but careless Killian - exactly like when we were much younger.

"It's not as it you'd notice," I mutter, then curse at my words. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Don't get exterior issues involved in an argument. That is pretty much Rule Number One. Liam begins to say something, probably a counter argument, but I cut him off. "Oh come on, Liam, you're never bloody here." I sigh heavily.

"Christ." Liam pauses and I stay quiet. "It's exactly the same for me," he murmurs quietly. I shut my eyes and lean my head against the wall in frustrated resignation. "Look, it's not easy being so far from you. All I have is you, my crew and Elsa. You know that," he implores.

"Oh right, yeah so similar," I say sarcastically. "It's fine, you don't need me. Liam JOnes has his own girlfriend and a crew of his own too." I roll my eyes bitterly.

"Killian -" Nope. I end the call abruptly and jam the phone into my pocket, shaking my head in slight disbelief.

I don't feel like going to a desk where there will be people asking questions and a sticky keyboard and a bunch of emails tasking me with some infrastructure work alongside some sort of prompt for Regina about the damn report.

My stomach rumbles. That decides it.

* * *

The cafeteria is one of the more colorful areas of the company building, pioneered by a loving but fierce elderly woman. Granny. With wispy grey hair and small round glasses, she watches the room like a hawk.

The room is set out like an old diner, with red leather booths and chairs with white piping along their sides. Paired with large, shining metal tables, and the music you may associate with the 'rocking fifties'. Many people dislike how boldly the cafeteria contrasts with the rest of our sophisticated and modern building. Personally, I like it. And I know that Regina does too by the amount of times I have seen Tink walking away with more than one tub of fries and coffee on days of long meetings. And, thankfully, this means that Granny's will remain open for as long as Regina is in charge.

It's a large area, with space enough for three hundred people, on tables of varying shapes and sizes. Even so, it's never overly crowded and I like that.

I smile and walk over to the counter where Granny is poised, tea towel in one hand and a half smile on her own face. A friendly face is needed and hell if Granny's isn't the friendliest face around. Despite the incredibly fearsome side of her; the one which keeps the crossbow within reach at her bedside.

"Alright kid?" Granny asks as I slide onto one of cushion-topped bar stools. She wanders towards me, eyes narrowed slightly, but laying the towel on the counter. A sign that a chat is in order. "What can I get you, to start with?"

"Tuna and cheese, please," I say, glancing briefly at the blackboard-menu on the back wall. "And a strong coffee." She nods, peers over her glasses at me, and calls over the stocky waitress to take my order to the kitchen, before returning her gaze to me.

"Rough start?"

"Been a weird few days," I admit, smiling a little. Must be my hunger, but it is near-impossible to not smile wistfully at the smell of grease and cheese and meat. So darn hungry. She pauses in movements, tea towel laying still against the metal, waiting for me. "I guess you heard about New York? And the... Injury?" She looks at me skeptically, as if analyzing my words. I feel almost silly saying these things.

"Indeed I did," she supplies. "And am I right in guessing that Mills put you straight on desk for a couple weeks?" I nod and roll my shoulders in slight annoyance. "Well, I am sorry but, I gotta say, I woulda done the same thing."

"As me or her," I mutter as my sandwich and coffee arrives, an attempt at a joke. The first bite is perhaps more savage than I intended, but it doesn't bother Granny or myself, because it tastes damn delicious.

"Both," she says almost gently. I glance up and shrug at her, both of us knowing there is nothing to be done now. "And what does Liam think of your _debacle_?" She attempts my accent poorly. I scowl at the mention of Liam. "Ah, so you have spoken to him." My eyes roll of their own accord.

"He wasn't impressed," I say through half a swallowed mouthful of tune. "So I -" I begin, but as I speak, the bell of the entrance rings and I turn, surprised. And not wanting this person to hear me talk of Liam or any of this. Instead of some corporate looking for a buzz, I see another agent. I've seen her around maybe once or twice, but barely said more than a couple of sentences. Who could forget a woman like that, though? Bloody hell.

Tall, slim, confident. Knee-high boots, a dark red leather jacket - different from the bright shade of the cushions - and cascading light blonde curls snarling down her back, swaying with each purposeful step. Towards me. I avert my eyes immediately and take a swig of coffee.

But then she doesn't even glance in my direction.

Blondie stops at the counter, three feet away from me, and reads silently through the menu. It's almost as if she's reading for the sake of it, waiting to be served. Granny glances at the woman, perplexed for a moment, before flitting her eyes back to me. I shrug and she pushes her glasses a little higher on her nose, all business again.

"I'll be back in a moment, Killian. Don't go anywhere," she warns, waggling a finger at me. I laugh slightly and Granny moves to the blonde. "What can I get for you, dear?"

"Two black coffees, please," Blondie says, her hand tapping nervously against the counter top. "To go," she adds hastily. I try to watch discreetly, seeing the take out cups being filled with coffee from the pot, and I hear Granny's joke of,

"You must be working yourself into the ground to need so much coffee." Both she and the young woman laugh lightly before she replies with a polite,

"The other is for my partner." Granny nods understandingly, hands her the lids and waves her a cheery goodbye. My stomach sinks for no apparent reason. I blame the coffee and quickly move on from any elucidating thoughts. The bell rings as the door opens and closes behind the woman. Granny returns with a cheery smile on her face. Even though I know thew conversation could be anything but. And, though my stomach is full, and my mind if awake in this bold place, I suddenly don't feel like talking.

"Killian?"

"Hmm?" I respond, not wanting to talk.

"What did Liam say?"

The question is so direct that I can't really refuse to answer her.

"He told me to be more careful," I reply, merely reporting it as a fact, making sure to emotionally detach from the recent memory of my brothers words. "Treated me like a bloody fool." Yeah, that's too difficult. I take another sip pf coffee, enjoying the buzz. "Then when I expressed that he was too far away to make judgement and notice, he got angry and as did I." I try to shrug nonchalantly but Granny is looking at me in that analyzing way again. As if she can read past my words.

"You told him it wasn't your fault?" she asks gentle, but still trying to find some solution lying at the pit of this. It's noway near the worst argument my brother and I have had, but one of the more touchy and difficult topics we have encountered.

"Yep. He still told me off like I was a child." I sigh heavily and then laugh to myself. "My scruff would prove him wrong, could he see it." Granny laughs lightly but recognizes the underlying message. "I think he's still wary because of all the Milah stuff." The woman nods in understanding.

"Well, that was quite the mess." We laugh and I think about her briefly, the ridiculousness being the cause of my smiles. "We both know Liam," she begins, reminiscing. "As stubborn as his brother." She looks at me pointedly over her glasses. "It's no wonder you argue so damn much."

Because Liam is a bloody saint and I, the lesser Jones, am a drinking, cheating bastard with terrible relationship history. Barely anything over a date or so after the termination of mine and Milah's half-relationship.

"Chin up, Kiddo, you're not alone." I glance back up at her, a little shocked at the kinder words. But, before I can respond, the bell rings again and I hear the clacking of heels against the linoleum and a sharp voice saying,

"Hey Granny... And Jones."

Ruby Lucas stands at the counter, a couple of wads of paper escaping from the confines of her huge handbag. I recognize them immediately as case files. She has never been one for discretion, but then again we do all work for the same company - firm or group of people or whatever.

Even in her outfit she is not discreet.

Black leather trousers, black heeled boots, a vibrant red silk shirt and red highlights lacing through her dark, straight hair. No way near as subtle as the blond, but striking in her own way. Even her make-up screams daring. Most things are black and red with Ruby, which is kind of ironic. She barely goes a day without the pairing of those two colors. Mostly, I think to do with her choice of vivid red highlights and her name.

She smiles semi-politely at me before turning to her grandmother - Ruby is Granny's only biological grandchild - and pulling a cake tin from the enormous handbag. Granny's eyes light up with both joy and mischief. As though she is deciding whether to sell Ruby's confection or keep it for herself. Ruby is strangely talented at baking, though you may not guess from her cold and blase or dim demeanor. She makes a mean chocolate cake, though.

"What is it today, Red?" Granny asks delightedly, taking the tin and opening it to sniff. Red is the nickname Granny reserves for her granddaughter.

"Ginger and lemon cake," Ruby states almost proudly.

"Oooooh!"

And with that remark, Granny disappears to fetch a plate for the cake to be stood upon throughout the day. In the meantime, Ruby sits down beside me and pulls out a thick wad of paper, surrounded in a manila folder.

"Look," she demands. I raise an eyebrow at her and swallow another bite of sandwich.

"Ruby, come on, you know I can't take this," I say, trying to not be patronizing or full of self-pity. She rolls her eyes as if I am the one being dim for once.

"God, Killian, I know that. Give me some credit." She rolls her eyes again. "Just take a little time to look at it. That's not against your new house rules is it?" I roll my own and shake my head, pulling the thing towards me. "It's your kind of thing."

* * *

The title of the case read 'GREEN CROCODILE KING'.

 _What a strange name for such a case._ I've never read such a title for anything before. They are usually titled by numbers and nonsensical words, but this seems like one big code-name. Unusual. I continue to scan the document and rifle through the pages as well.

 _Concerns: Rumplestiltskin Gold, Albert Spencer_

My stomach clenches instinctively at the name, uncomfortable at reading it. But I want to read on, my interest piquing horribly. I have to know what bloody mess the man is in now and how it concerns this 'Gold'. That sort of explains the word 'King' in the name, as Spence belongs to the 'Royale'. Making him a King. That twists something unpleasant in my stomach too, and I keep reading.

 _Rumpelstiltskin_ _Gold: Arms dealer - born in Southern Scotland, residence unknown at present  
_ _Firepower unknown_  
 _Relations: Neal Baelfire Gold (son),_ _Zelena Green (assistant, associate)_

That explains the Green.

 _Albert Spencer: 'Common Mobster' - 'Mafia Royale' - born in New Zealand, resided in USA for last 30 years  
_ _Relations: James Spencer and David Nolan (sons), Ruth Spencer (ex-wife), Fellow members of 'Mafia Royale' (French, De Vil, Pendragon, others unknown - associates)_

 _Details of issue raised:  
Gold's constant attempts for power has led to many issues between him and his 'associates' (those who affiliate with his business). Makes sometimes unachievable deals and, following the lack of response from 'associates', takes from them to gain power, much to chagrin of his son.  
Similar situation in reverse with Spencer: Gold made a significant deal and, when Gold could not give him what he promised upon achieving the requirements, Spencer lashed out._

 _Issue prevalent: Hostage situation - Neal Baelfire Gold in custody of Albert Spencer until Gold pulls through on deal_

 _Suspicion of planning attack on Spencer to obtain his son_

 _Location of both subjects unknown, recent locations listed on file Z47.30MPS (PASSWORD REQUIRED), recent updates added to P42.30MPS_

 _Situation usually in Police control, but will only be in attendance due to nature of subjects involved and past affiliation with subjects_

 _Other valid details: Must be kept low-profile, heavy security case - plot of complete destruction. Will need intelligence officers.  
Also: High demand for files recently acquired by 'MistHaven'. Warnings of collaboration for such files._

"Well..." I say, sighing heavily in near-admiration. "This is interesting. Definitely my kind of thing." And so equally frustrating. "Ruby, I can't help you."

"I know," she smiles in feigned sweetness, as Granny returns with the cake on a spotted ceramic stand. "I've got stone-cold Blondie on my case. The one who was in here a few minutes ago. Passed her on the way here from third." Third meaning third floor.

"That's annoying; this is exactly my thing! Directly linked to Spencer, and his bloody organization." I sigh heavily again, angry. Bloody woman.

"Not yours anymore, Killian," Ruby argues, whips up the case, gives Granny a quick hug before leaving with a confident walk, the tin in her hand. I don't watch her go, just hear the heels against the plastic, and stare at the empty cup of coffee. The dregs stain the white sides.

Bloody woman.

I sit in silence, barely registering Granny sneaking a slice of the cake and putting it away for her later. She claims it will make it more likely to be bought, but we all know she likes the cakes just as much as the rest of us. I don't look up at her, even when I feel her eyes on me. It's because I am well and truly stuck now. Red will be doing the case I should be on with the Blonde and I will sitting at my desk, writing a report about everything I did wrong. And Liam will probably revel in that; my mistakes being on display for record - for the entire company to view if they come across it. And I will be left in the dark.

"Killian?" I don't look up, defiant. "You know there are ways you can be involved from the desk."

"If you are suggesting that I do field-coordination, that's not really my thing," I snap a little.

"I wasn't, but you could do that. Your past with Spencer could be helpful in that way." She pauses and waits for me to look up again. I roll my shoulders and run a hand through my air, biting the inside of my cheek. "I was suggesting that you use your talents in infrastructure to build a case of sorts." Granny leans in closer and I smell the plain flour and coffee dusted on her scent. "Regina won't be able to deny you are helpful, then."

Intriguing idea. Granny continues.

"There is bound to be more than one copy of those files and I have no doubt that you could access them, Killian." Her voice is barely audible and I am glad that there is hardly anyone else in the cafeteria at this time. Granny could get fired for suggesting such a thing. "It's no secret that you are equal to August in something like that." I purse my lips, hardly believing she is right.

Granny is some sort of strange expert in this respect. She may as well be in media relations and communications. She sees so many of the employees that she catches pretty much all of the rumors and the gossip which flies through the corridors, daily. In her diner, it's difficult to believe that she was a hardcore officer, once. But then she still has the hardness in her eyes - the spark.

"It's unlikely Regina will listen to me. I've been dismissed to my desk only a matter of hours," I say evenly.

"Get your report out of the way and she can't tell you off for going off-topic."

Granny winks and leaves with a pat to my hand. Her parting remarks. Do your work and you'll get repaid. In some weird nutshell.

The chair scrapes back along the floor and I leave some cash on the table. More than what my sandwich and coffee was cost, but it doesn't matter. I sink my hands into the pockets of the jacket, not leaving a glance at Granny, merely pushing past the doors and floors until reaching my very own desk. Finally, stretching my fingers and settling them on the keyboard to type up the bloody report.

Then I can do some real work.

* * *

 **Hello again! I am fully aware it's been a month, but I have been working as much as I can to get a chapter out to you! Please, let me know what you all think and I shall hopefully get an update to you very soon! I'll try not to lace too much British-ness into this!  
My exams start in a month so.. Eek.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Regina**_

The door closes behind Killian Jones and I sigh enormously, fed up of having to be stern, but still loving it. I would not rather do a different job than this one. I despise having to be in an office, but at least mine is pristine and allows me to think well. Plus, I don't have many other skills. I can be intimidating though.

A soft buzz comes from the phone, indicating Tinkerbell's want to contact me. My eyes roll, I swear of their own accord, and I pick up, bitterness beginning to race through me at the thought of her. Cute, rounded face, like a pixie, but so devilishly sneaky. Always wanting a little more but never asking for anything. Believing that my job is easier than it looks and resenting me for it.

"Tink?" I ask shortly, raising my eyes to the ceiling in frustration. I really want to sit in this room in silence for five minutes without being badgered. That would be nice.

"Your mother called," she says, tapping away on her keyboard and sounding intensely bored.

 _Great. So not great._

"What did she want?" I query, leaning heavily against my padded chair. Sarcasm really is my best bet here. It's what Tink mostly responds to, though she maintains her blasé demeanour. At least I am in the open office, cool air blowing through air-con, not having to deal with passers-by commenting on every movement. At least, I can't hear them in my secluded area.

"An appointment," Tink replies in her most dismissive and disdainful tone. As if I am the most idiotic person ever born.

"What for?" I have to be specific with Tink and not get frustrated. She handles a lot of issues I don't have time for.

"Presumably to talk to you."

More tapping of her painted fingernails on the keyboard, clearly displaying her lack of interest in what could potentially be a very important and irksome topic. Certainly for me, if not every one else here and everywhere. Who knows, maybe I will end up firing several imbeciles after my talk with my mother. That's exactly what happened last time. Especially as Tink appears to be in a difficult mood. Most likely to be something Killian Jones has said.

"Did she say what it was about?" Because, with my mother, it could be anything. From her latest quarrel with my father, to her newest business ideas on this firm, to how much she despises the excitable employee at her hair salon. Both trivial and not-so-trivial things.

"She just said..." And Tink puts on her voice to imitate my mother not-so-perfectly. "'I need to talk to my daughter. It is urgent and it is about _our_ business so keep you nose out of it, you tiny imp.' A little more polite than usual," Tink comments. I hardly laugh.

"And you said?" Because this cannot be good. If she put emphasis on _our_ business. As this corporation is my own.

"I said 'You can come in tomorrow if you stop calling me that, otherwise it's a month's wait'. She appreciated this and agreed to come tomorrow at 2:45," Tink reports and taps some more at that momentarily-damnable keyboard.

"But I am supposed to be somewhere then, Tink... Don't you remember? It's one the calendar," I say, my temper and panic rising simultaneously as it did whenever both my mother and Henry were involved in the same, ridiculous issue. Which happens to be more than I like to consider.

I hear her flipping through the calendar on her desk and then clicking to the one on the computer. I sigh heavily and move my mouse to where the computer screen says 'share' and click. Well, she should definitely found it now if that annoying little pixie has lost it already. How do you lose data! Ridiculous. And we're supposed to be working in espionage. However, I have never considered getting a new assistant, or receptionist or whatever she is.

"Should I rearrange your meeting with your mother then?" Tink asks, all business and not even bothering to tell me she has found the file even though I know she has. But that really is the question of the moment. Should I ask her to rearrange? I don't want to miss Henry's talk; desperately so. But my mother will be furious if I don't even attempt to talk to her. Surely I can keep her off my back somewhat...

"No, I can make it quick," I say, making a note of when my mother is coming and exactly how long I need to be speaking to her for before I absolutely must leave. "I'll just have to sort out a few things."

"Okay." And then Tink puts down the phone. To me it's not rude, though. It's business, and at the pace I like it to be.

I try searching a few documents on my computer - ones supposed to be submitted today - and then scan over a couple for any blinding mistakes. All seems to be in some working order, for once. I sigh and lean back against the plush, white leather chair, the suspension making it slightly springy and incredibly comfortable. There are small sounds from my computer as the emails roll in so I eventually turn the sound off and decide to animate my mind while I don't want to power through the mail and scour for more mistakes and downfalls in small parts of the firm.

After only two rings does Robin pick up and a smile creeps onto my face, _without my permission._ I allow it. It's Robin.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asks immediately, knowing I wouldn't normally call during work hours. And I know it's his day off.

"Nothing, I just wanted to call." He knows it's a lie, but doesn't call me out on it straight away. Let's it mull over in my head, and damn does it always work. "My mother called." I try to say it offhandedly, but nothing to do with my mother is a small deal. Robin knows it as much as I do.

"What for?"

"She didn't say exactly. She mentioned the business and that it was urgent. And she wants to see me." I try to be blasé and I know he is too. I can tell by the waning smile in his voice. Despite him being glad to talk to me, this is not exactly something we want to be talking of.

"When?"

"Tomorrow. At 2:45."

"But Regina, that's not long before Henry's talk. His starts at 3pm. Do you think you can make it?" I close my eyes for a moment, no longer. This is what I had been thinking about, what I was debating and deliberating over and over again. Would I make it to Henry's talk? The literature one he has been planning for weeks, but has not let us see - he wants to see our faces when he does it in front of everyone else as well.

"Absolutely," I say. "I wouldn't miss it." Plus, his school is only five minutes away.

"Okay, maybe we can talk to Henry about it later; just so that he knows." I nod and then verbally give my agreement. That's Robin. Providing the answers to my silly little thoughts and worries about life and all things in it. My perfect counter part. I sigh and smile in recollection.

"Thank you."

"It's okay," Robin replies with that faint smile in his voice. "I'll see you later, Regina." And we pause in our conversation for a couple of moments before he hangs up the phone. The deafening beep on the other end making me realise that I should probably move onto something different now. Some work. But, of course as these situations call, I no longer feel like answering the monotonous emails and checking through my schedules another fifty-six times.

I sift through my to-do list and find nothing of immediate importance. Strangely common in this ridiculously busy corporation. Will just have to have a look at the emails. There's nothing else. The set meeting with the different departments is on Friday, so I have two days to prepare for that. Great. At least there's time. Then going through the trainee reports to make sure there are no blaring errors.

Really, I should have employed more competent educators.

A buzz from my desk phone distracts me yet again and Tink's voice fills the room as I put the tone on speaker.

"Someone from finance here to see you," she announces in a bored voice, and messages across a quick info note on the person. Then hangs up the line as it comes through. I take mere moments to briefly look over her notes and tell Tink to send her in.

 _Belle French. Works in various fields throughout company. Highly intelligent. Bit of a pushover at times_

Perhaps I should tell Tink to write her notes on certain people in a more professional way. Then again, it amuses me greatly. Especially some of the more imaginative one. And the ones I can liken to psycho-analysis. For example, _Emma Swan. Agent. Highly contrasting - blonde with vague intelligence. Mommy and Daddy problems._

Amusingly correct, that one.

And _Ruby Lucas. Likes red and black, exclusively._

My meeting with Belle French lasts around half an hour in the end. Despite it being a spontaneous meeting of sorts, she was exceptionally well-prepared and I managed to answer most of her queries and note down the others to get back to her later. There were never any sourcing issues with the cash flow; the main issue is where to direct it. Majority of Belle's concerns were to do with the meeting on Friday and what information could be shared, would be addressed and how I was planning on controlling the obvious qualms between departments.

I told her that was a brash comment, but commended it anyway. And that she could advise until I would be forced to step in. As a bright, young mind - and working in finance - she should be brainy enough to take on a bunch of men and women fighting over why their department needed the money the most that sector.

A small relief, I suppose.

Alas, now I really do have to check my emails. The mountain of them. Oh _goody_.

The first thing that pops up is from Emma Swan, considering her latest case. I almost roll my eyes immediately. My god, she can be insufferable. She is requesting some admission into further research for the case profile and needs my permission to start research. I suggest Killian Jones. He is a fairly admirable pirate and therefore a highly successful worker in the technological infrastructure. Not something I have ever been interested, however.

Of course, the rest of the day passes in a monotonous blur of excitement. As they do mostly here in my impeccably clean office.

As always, I have the horribly large work load which I love perhaps too much for my own good. Delegating new cases to agents, acquiring new cases from clients, arranging meetings with potential clients. These all fall into the circle pattern. There are also the reviews for the latest recruits - working through the reports and arranging a time to oversee a session. Then going over notes made from Belle's conversation so I can formulate them into some sort of slideshow for the meeting later this week.

With certainty, rifling through the emails. They're separated into folders and rated in terms of importance. Obviously, everyone thinks their work is more important than the last person. Somewhat frustrating and exhausting, but that's people for you. Demanding attention when it doesn't want to be held by the person on the other end.

Towards the end of the day, I buzz through to Tink to tell her that I have cleared my schedule for tomorrow after the visit from my mother. She hmms and mmms during the brief conversation, letting me know - yet again - how little she cares for what I do and what goes on around her. A little irritating, but she has been that way for a long time. I want to be able to spend the day with Henry after his talk and to have time with Roland and Robbin too. Instead of filtering through the pile of crap on my computer which work sends.

No. I want a day with my family. Especially after the pending trauma of my mother coming to town.

What's that all about.

At around five o'clock is closing time for the majority of the firm. So, along with the rest of the sheep of this corporation, I pack up my brown, leather briefcase with the few less confidential files, some memos I printed off earlier in the day, and my empty lunchbox. Granny makes a mean chicken salad, but sometimes she is a little heavy with the oil and dressing.

Down the staircases with everyone else, except that they move aside for me. I don't pause to thank them because they do it everyday. Amidst the crowd I sot several people I know more personally. Doctor Hopper on the third floor, holding open a door with his strange umbrella. August Booth, talking to his father and shrugging on the little-too-tight leather jacket, bikers helmet in hand. And then there's Killian Jones. Again. Except, I see him working on the second floor, at a desk, looking decidedly grumpy.

I don't feel bad. There's no point. If I felt any inkling of guilt for all the tough decisions I have made, then I would in a hole, crawling around the pile of resentment like a maggot. Slugging through each hard day, the guilt piling.

No point to that.

Instead, I continue on my not-very-merry way down the staircases and stalk from the tall glass doors of the building, without looking back. Into the red car that awaits me, in the spot marked "Regal Regina". A joke that Tink made and told the men of maintenance - Leroy and his fellows - to put in the place of "CEO". Because apparently that is too boring.

And finally I am leaving. Briefcase stacked on the seat beside me, the heat slowly beginning to get to me. I will be glad to be wearing something a little less heat-inducing. Thick cotton dresses are not preferable in ridiculous weather such as this. Bold skies and scorching sunlight, despite it being near quarter past five o'clock when I reach Henry's school.

Henry Mills. My son. Whose only liken to me is his dark hair and brown eyes. He shares his paler complexion with his father, Robin. Who, yes, I have yet to tie the knot with. For goodness sake. Henry is pushing for it, though. Even now.

"Mom!" He shouts and hear it before I notice him leaning against the tree beside his high school. So grown up, he looks, as well. He's grinning at me and holding his books and a leaf of paper to go with the bumf he also carries. Homework, and extra curricular work. "I got a report!"

And that.

"What do you mean you got a report?" I snap as he pulls open the door, sets the briefcase on the floor and sits down beside me. Hand holding that paper which could be the beginning of the end of my son's unmarked record. "What kind of report?" Because every mother assumes the worst.

Henry scowls at me.

"Not that kind of report, come on!" He laughs then. "Look at it!"

The paper is shoved into my unprepared hands and crumples slightly. I barely have time to read it before,

"Mom, it's my teacher! The one who takes the book club. She said I have 'unforeseen and outstandingly original talent'!" I turn to look at my son with a smile beginning to form on my usually expressionless face. It's a gift and a curse. He hardly believes me. "Don't give me that fake smile!"

"I'm not!" I shout, laughing.

Henry grins back at me and I start pulling away, and I tell him that it's wonderful news and that I knew it all along and that, of course he was talented and brilliant. And when he asks, as he so often does, why I don't read any of his work, I tell him that I am extremely busy. He asks me, doing what, but I have to tell him some random boring admin work for a company I know very little about and some other lies to appease him for now.

It's hardly twenty minutes before we are home.

The four of us - that is, Robin, Myself, Henry and Roland - all live in a small suburban area just outside of the city. One of those places where every house has a picket fence and the people are kind and somewhat annoying in their neighbourly habits. Our neighbour, Sarah Greenford, likes bringing over pies and lasagne and trying to give advice on how I should be pruning my apple tree. And looking at Robin a little too kindly for my liking.

As always, Henry is through the door first and calling out that we are back. I set my briefcase at the edge of the door and close it behind me while Henry races to the kitchen to pour himself some juice.

"You're going to Marian's tonight, so make sure you're ready to go in an hour!" I call to him. And finally start to deflate.

The shoes are off first. A blessing. Then the jacket. Then I am pouring myself a hot coffee and rifling through the books on kitchen shelves to find something I can cook for Robin and myself. There has to be something good in here. I refuse to spend our 'date night' getting takeout pizza again. Not that Robin would mind in the slightest.

I reach a page halfway through the book titled 'Orange Salmon'. My interest piqued, I pore over the recipe. Salmon, orange, ginger, pak choi - not sure we have any of that - vinegar, honey. A few other odds and sods that I can add in. I think that I will exchange the pak choi for Mediterranean vegetables, though. It will certainly be easier and we always pepper and onions in the fridge. Maybe I will add some honeyed carrots and some broccoli.

"Mom do you want a hand?" comes Henry's voice as I begin to pull out the ingredients from the fridge and cupboards. Going over each of them in my head and reworking the recipe due to the amount of each.

"Are you ready to go to Marian's?" I ask, pausing to look at him. Scruffy in the checked red shirt and jumper and jeans with fading on the left knee. What has he been up to this time?

"Yes!" he says, laughing.

"You can cut the veg," I concede. Henry is immediately upon the task, pulling the peppers and onion, carrot and broccoli from my finger tips and placing them on 'his side'. He works to the left of the hob and I work to the right, preparing the two salmon fillets for Robin and I. I briefly wonder what the boys will have at Marian's, but soon remember they have a usual: Pizza and chips. Sometimes with the addition of carrots and peas. Neither of which Roland cares for.

We work in silence for a couple of minutes, only listening to the slicing of knives and the slight bubble of water on the hob. Soon enough, I know I have to speak up about his talk tomorrow, and break the silence - very nearly unwilling.

"I have to talk to you about something, Henry," I say, carefully stirring the orange in the pan.

"What?" I detect a very slight note of bitterness in his tone. Or is it just those teenager hormones again. Making mom the baddie, in yet another family. Oh lordy, does it make me feel bad as well.

"It's about your talk, tomorrow," I venture, knowing that he will react like the bubbling pot of water and orange. Sizzling.

"You can't come, can you?" But instead, his voice is calm. Too calm. It does worry me a little. I can sense that little bit, just under the surface. The radon escaping, the ground tilting, the volcano waiting...

"Of course -" I start. But _bang._

"I don't get you!" Henry shouts suddenly, slamming the knife down onto the cutting board. Half the carrots finished and half unshaven. "You have to be lying about that job! No admin takes up that much time!" He glares at the carrots and then at the wall and grumbles, "It's not as you're poorly paid, either."

"Really," I start, the inch of derision leaking into my tone. "My job, again? That old argument." I laugh shortly.

"I just don't understand why you would lie to me."

 _A knife to my gut._ That is precisely how it feels. Because of course I hate lying to Henry. Of course. Of course, I want to tell him everything about every part of my day. I know it would fascinate him to no end, despite how very dull it can be in actuality. Head of a 'spy corporation'. Henry would laugh in my face if I even said such words to him. How ironic.

"I'm not. I'm only trying to-"

"What, protect me?" He laughs coldly. "From what? Because I would _love_ to know." Because he has no idea what kind of things could happen to him if he knew much about the people I deal and what could happen to this small, suburban life I have tried to build around us. Robin knows what I do and that is enough danger for my family.

"Henry -"

"No, it's okay. Don't worry."

He starts to cut the carrots with a new ferocity. The knife slams again and again and I am worried he will cut his fingers or hurt himself other way than the mental torment he is enduring. And I am a little angry at him for being angry at me. But exasperated because this is not something I can help. I don't have to see my mother, but I have to protect my son and be a good mother.

"Henry, I will make it," I say into the new silence between us.

"Really, it's fine," he replies. "It's not important."

His tone says clearly that it is of upmost importance to him and that if I didn't come, he would no longer want me as a mother. _Great_. I sigh heavily and wait until the carrots are done and he looks to me, that little bit of teenage anger still in his eyes.

"I will be there," I say firmly. He does not dare to raise an eyebrow and I internally smile. "Now, go and get ready. Your father will be back very soon." He smirks a little at my use of 'father' before leaving the knife on the board and disappearing from my sight. I am very thankful that Henry cannot stay angry with me for very long. It's a blessing.

Just then, I hear the door click open and Robin's footfalls coming closer after the dropping of his rucksack on the kitchen table.

"Hey," he says and sits down in one of the hard, plastic chairs. I smile.

"Hey."

And leave the orange to simmer and the salmon fillets placed on the tray to go into the oven. Robin smiles tiredly at me and stands to bring me into a short-lived embrace. A chaste kiss and Henry and Roland are standing by the door, emitting a chorus of,

"Ew!"

"Welcome back," I sigh, with a smile in place and glance towards the boys before stepping away. "I'm cooking salmon." He nods in appreciation and sniffs the air with a slight grin.

"I'll drop the boys off," Robin announces and turns to greet the boys with a large grin. He kisses me on the cheek and leaves, taking his phone from the front pocket of his rucksack. Sometimes I don't understand how he can have so much energy. To go straight from work to home and then out and then be back and have to be alert constantly. I am merely resigned to cooking.

The salmon goes in the over, strips of ginger covering it, then I am racing upstairs to change into something slightly more comfortable than my cotton work dress. A summer dress and long cardigan. With enough room for food. And I am starting on dessert when Robin arrives home again, looking utterly knackered.

"Smells delicious," he remarks.

"Apple turnover," I tell him.

"You okay?" he asks, leaning against the door frame, casual. I simply nod and turn back to the food while Robin goes to change and lay the table for our meal. We don't say anything as we sit down to eat, both knowing that we have to have adult conversations as well as the light-hearted ones we usually have on such date nights. It hangs a little like a burden until one of us cannot hold it anymore. Like Atlas and the sky.

"How was work?" I ask.

"It was good, just very slow." He pauses and smiles, clearly thinking about his day. Robin works in financial and accounting advising. Very helpful when I need someone to check over some of the latest reports from the firm. Some people really can be dim, despite working in such an important place - seriously, some of my employees seem not to be able to add and subtract, never mind sorting through the expenses on a three-monthly basis.

"How so?"

"I was doing admin, for once. Filling out contracts for the new deal. ' _Gold's_ ' or something silly like that." _Must be a coincidence_ , I think. There is a lot of Gold in the world - both in names and physicality. It must have no link to my newly most-prevalent case. "Dare I even ask how your day was?"

I smile and chew the inside of my cheek.

"Apart from the promise of my mother, nothing hugely exciting. A few new cases, some very annoying people, and several hundreds reports to file through on new recruits. Dull stuff," I say.

"Did you talk to Henry?" asks Robin, chewing on a stubborn piece of broccoli. "This is really good, by the way."

"Thank you," I say, considering my words. "I tried to talk to him. But he shunned me again." Robin nods in understanding and we both think briefly about the past arguments Henry and I have had and how they all seem to stem from that same thing.

"The truth thing?" I nod and continue eating the honeyed carrots. Tasty but can seem bland in my slightly melancholy mood. "What are you going to do?" he asks again, revisiting the worry of earlier today. How there is a possibility that I might not make it to his talk. The same sort of worry that Henry has about me not really being the kind of mother he wants. Not being the mother who is there all the time and is hiding something mad and devious.

He used to think I was an evil queen, trapping everyone in this world. Now he's grown up, he just thinks I am a liar.

"I am going to try to cut my talk with my mother to as little time as possible, and sprint to see my son doing his talk. I will not be _that_ mother. Like my mother - the one who misses everything."

"You're not," Robin says quietly.

We finish the meal in comfortable quiet, occasionally mentioning little thoughts of the day and compliments to my cooking, once again. The evening draws in around us and it isn't long before Robin is slipping out to get the boys and bring them home and we are tucking them into bed. Unusually, both of them are compliant. They must have had fun at Marian's.

And I wonder whether they have more fun with her than they ever have done with me.

I save both boys a piece of turnover and kiss them goodnight before slipping into my pyjamas and heading back downstairs to finish the light evening with Robin with a bit of trash TV and finally some well-earned dessert. Hot turnover and ice-cream. One would say it's a speciality of mine.

Robin and I sit on the sofa, me leaning into him and watching the TV trash, talking lightly as the light dies even further outside the room. Absorbing the few quiet moments we are having and enjoying it immensely. It's not usual for Robin and I to have these quiet times together to just _be_.

He pulls me further into his side and yawns. I glance up at him and see the drooping of his eyelids. He's tired. And my eyes are aching as well.

"Bedtime," I instruct, patting his leg affectionately. He kisses the top of my head and turns off the television. Together, we clear up the plates from the carpet and trudge up the stairs, both feeling the day just as much as the other. Robin takes my hand when I wobble on the top step, my eyes closing momentarily. He smiles and kisses me briefly.

As we are turning in for the night and bidding each other a goodnight, I can't help but think about what my mother wants. And what she will try to do to get whatever it may be. And know I am in for a restless night.

* * *

 **Hello! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it was a bit... Bad haha. I am very sorry it's been such a long time since I update - exam land and all that jazz! I hope you forgive me! Review and let me know what you thought about this! :-)  
(Hopefully not anything really, really, really awful!)**


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